


Standing Still

by purplebass



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27523729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplebass/pseuds/purplebass
Summary: I’ve had this idea after the recent tweet about Alastair receiving letters and burning them in COI… so I wrote this thing. I hope you like.
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood
Kudos: 64
Collections: Thomastair





	1. Chapter 1

Alastair had had enough. It was the tenth letter he had received in two weeks. Like the first nine, it wasn’t signed. He didn’t know many people, and he wasn’t sure who would be able to do this prank, but he could try to imagine.

He was sure it was no one from his immediate family. His thoughts went to Charles, the only person who would care about him at the moment in this city. He hadn’t been happy to cut ties with him, but Alastair thought he wouldn’t act like this. He wouldn’t want his messages to be intercepted.

He glanced at the piece of paper. The handwriting was neat, but the letters weren’t too big. Alastair wasn’t into graphology, but he thought that the author was someone shy and reserved. It wasn’t an usual writing.

_Why didn't you come and talk to me yourself?_

The text was cryptic, to say the least. Who was the person behind this text? Why did they want him to talk to them?

Alastair barely talked to anyone these days. Especially the people his sister Cordelia was seeing. He felt slightly welcomed in their group once, but he wasn’t too sure if he would be again. _That was it._ It must be someone from his younger sister’s group of friends. Fairchild. Or Herondale. Or… Alastair shook his head.

 _Stop fantasizing about a stranger_ , he told himself and the lonely hearth in front of him. _It’s a prank_. _I bet there is someone outside watching how you’d react._

He read the message once again. Twice. Three times. He wanted to solve the mystery, but thought he had given these too much of his precious time. If this person wanted to have a conversation with him, they would approach them someday. Or they would not. Of this, Alastair thought, he shouldn’t care. He crumpled the piece of paper and then threw it in the fire. It dissolved in a few seconds, leaving no trace. Alastair watched as the last shreds turned into ash, and then left the room.

He didn’t know that the author of those missives was indeed looking at him.

He shouldn’t have, but every time he sent those messages to Alastair’s house, his feet moved on their own volition. He was curious. He wanted to see how he would react. He wanted to check for himself whether he would be happy or sad that someone had been thinking about him. He hadn’t been surprised by the outcome, but he should have expected it.

Every time Alastair had opened a letter, his face had stayed the same. Unaffected. Even annoyed. And time after time, his reaction had been the same. He always threw the correspondence into the fire without blinking once, and left the room. But the last two times he had dedicated the paper more time than usual, and he may know the reason.

The first messages were impersonal. It was natural that he was not impressed and even angry. But the last two had been more personal, more honest. He wanted him to understand he was being watched but not in an unsettling way.

He wasn’t ready to go to him and talk as if nothing had happened between them. He hoped that Alastair would get closer, as he had done in the past weeks before their falling out. But he had never done so, and he was scared to make the first move.

Yes. He didn’t know what to do. And he didn’t know why. The only thing he was aware of was that he missed his conversations with Alastair. But knew something broke the night of Cordelia’s engagement party, and he didn’t have any idea how to mend whatever they had. If they ever had something.

So, he sent him these missives, hoping to elicit a reaction from him. Tonight, he felt he got the guise of one. Slight, weak, but it was there. He wasn’t ready, and so wasn’t he. In that moment, the only thing Thomas could do was stare at Alastair’s house, until he would figure it out. Or until he would have enough courage to reveal that he was the author of those letters. Until then, Thomas would just stare, and Alastair would just fantasize. He wondered who would cave in first.


	2. Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Week Later after Chapter 1 ended.

Alastair buried his hands in his pockets, trying to warm his fingers. It was a cold night of November, and it was snowing already. It wasn’t a night to roam around town, but he went out anyway. As silly as it sounded - and he frowned at himself for even thinking it - Friday was the day he received most of the mysterious missives.

He always found the messages outside his door before dinnertime, after he returned from his duties. He was the last to get back. Thus, the person who was leaving the letters must have known his schedule. They knew that he would be the last to see the parchment colored piece of paper lying on the last step before the door.

Alastair pretended not to expect anything, but when he reached his door, he was content to see that there was indeed a small envelope waiting for him on the stairs. The sender must have ignored the cold and the snow just like he did. He reached for it, but instead of opening it inside like he always did, he tore the packet apart and read it right there.

_Is there anything you regret?_

As he read and re-read, the falling flakes of snow soaked the paper, creating small circles on it. Some even stained the black handwriting, almost trying to wash away the words on the note.

“I regret that you’re sending me these,” Alastair said to the missive. "Don't you understand that it's over?"

"Is it, really?"

Alastair stilled. He crumpled the piece of paper in his fist because of the sudden shock. The voice, however, was of the last person he’d expect on his doorstep. Thomas Lightwood.

"It's good manners to introduce yourself before asking a question out of the blue."

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself."

Alastair looked at Thomas. He was smiling. There was nothing of the expression he had the last time they saw each other. No rage, no disappointment. They could seem like old friends who happened to meet each other casually in the streets one autumn night.

"Is it late,” Alastair commented. He realized that it could be an answer to Lightwood’s previous question. Seeing how he was nodding, he thought that he might have come to the same conclusion.

“It depends on the point of view,” Thomas said, and rubbed his hands.

“What do you think?” he asked, genuinely interested in what he would say next. He agreed with his previous reply, and was sure that he wouldn’t be open to mend things with the person who had probably sent those letters.

“I think it’s never too late.”

“It depends on the point of view,” Alastair countered, using Thomas’ previous comment. He glanced at the missive. The paper was ruined. He hadn’t realized that he had been holding it too tightly. He glared at it, and rolled his eyes. When he gazed up at Thomas, his expression had turned serious.

“What are we talking about?” he wondered, glancing at the paper. “Bad news?”

“Cryptic news, I’d say,” Alastair offered, but didn’t add more.

“Maybe they just don’t know how to be direct and reveal their true feelings.”

Alastair doubted it. In public, most likely. In private, not at all, as much as he hated it to admit it. “I know where they can put their feelings.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Yes, I understand.” He started to tap his fingers on the ornate iron rail on the side of the stairs.

Alastair looked at Thomas’ fingers. On another occasion, he wouldn’t have cared. He would have minded his own business, told him that he was freezing and that he wanted to get inside to burn the letter, but he did not. He acted impulsively and grabbed Thomas’s hand. The intention was to stop him, but he couldn’t deny that he was also seeking contact. His hands were still cold and lonely.

“I’m sorry,” Alastair said, putting his hand back in his pocket.

“I should be the one apologizing,” Thomas replied quickly, grinning.

“Why?”

“Because of the letters I’ve sent you,” he said, glancing at the crumpled piece of paper in Alastair’s hand. “You’re bothered.”

Alastair didn’t know what to say, and he said the first thing that came to his mind. It didn’t mean it was the truth about how he really felt about this situation. “So it was you,” he told him, his tone rough but not unkind. “Of course.”

“I promise that is the last one,” Thomas retorted. “I just wanted to talk to you again,” he told him honestly.

_I also wanted to talk to you_ , Alastair wanted to say. Instead, he said something different. “That’s a relief, Lightwood.”

It was a sentence that could have two different meanings. It was a relief that Thomas would stop with the letters. But it was also a relief that it was Thomas and not the other person, who had sent the letters. He wondered how Thomas interpreted it. Most likely, he thought that Alastair was sick of those letters. But Alastair neither confirmed it nor added more, leaving Thomas to make of his comment what he wanted. As usual.

Thomas’s smile didn’t waver. He nodded in agreement, and turned to leave. He quickly descended the stairs. Alastair’s reasoning wasn’t as quick. He went behind Thomas as soon as he realized that he didn’t want to part on a bad note.

“What is it?” Thomas asked, surprised.

Alastair took his scarf off, and offered it to Thomas. “It’s a long way to your house, Lightwood. And it’s snowing. You better cover yourself up.”

Thomas frowned, but took the piece of clothing anyway and wore it. Alastair managed a grin before he went to his door, and dared one last look. He didn’t give the other time to reply. Thomas was still looking, Alastair’s scarf safely around his neck. He nodded his head in greeting, then got inside, secretly grateful that the author of those letters was him.


End file.
